


burn the witch

by fatiguedfern



Series: stitch the ghosts of your past to the present [1]
Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Character-centric, F/F, NDRV3 Spoilers, Post-Canon, Yumeno-centric, clearly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-26 15:44:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10789683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fatiguedfern/pseuds/fatiguedfern
Summary: She hates magic. No spell would banish the shadows circling her eyes and no magic would raise the dead. All magic was was the idea of a drug that her past self had gotten addicted to.





	burn the witch

**Author's Note:**

> I had to use at least one oc for plot purposes

It takes Himiko a good few seconds to rub the specks of ash obscuring her vision out of her eyes. When she finally does manage to clear her sight, she’s greeted with an attempt at a reassuring smile from Saihara. The smile’s about as reassuring as it is triumphant, which it certainly isn’t, so the sentiment is somewhat lost on her.

A few paces ahead of them, Harukawa mindlessly nudges at the still-smoking rubble with her boot-clad toes. Himiko doesn’t even bother trying to catch a glimpse of Harukawa’s face. She knows what it would look like at this point. Cold and uncaring, with troubled eyes that shone in direct contrast.

Saihara seems to be stuck in his own inner monologue again and it takes a particularly strong jerk at his sleeve from Himiko to wake him from his daze. His gaze is half-vacant and damning when he finally directs it towards her, but Himiko ignores the accusing stare and tightens her hold on his sleeve, readying herself to partly drag their unofficial leader. Though tired, she feels a rush of power surge through her veins. She’ll leave these smouldering ruins once and for all. She’ll leave behind the limp faces that she’d met in this Hell.

.  
.  
.

It turns out that the memory of the faces that Hell had introduced to her isn’t as easily left to smother in the dust her steps raise as she'd thought, especially after regaining a new set of memories to sort through. 

Harukawa had agreed so readily at the chance to reclaim her past, that Himiko couldn’t help but follow her lead, albeit more reluctantly. Saihara, however, had acted as if he’d had a choice other than shouldering the weight his past-self’s actions. He’d taken three days before he’d finally scribbled his signature on the piece of paper that signified his willingness to recollect his memories. Himiko can’t even blame him for taking his time, maybe if she’d seen even a snippet of her past-self she wouldn’t have agreed at all.

The memories come in bursts of light and colour, static that’s far too uncooperative to allow itself to be tuned to a frequency that makes it even somewhat pliant. More often than not she’s woken up from her restless slumber by the flash of a forgotten figure she almost wishes would have stayed forgotten. 

If Harukawa or Saihara experience the same, she wouldn’t be all too surprised. In fact, if Saihara’s frequent shifts between all-round asshole and docile protagonist are anything to go by, it’s guaranteed.

Harukawa isn’t quite as easy to place as Saihara is. Her habit of keeping to herself having stuck with her and preventing Himiko from learning anything. 

Eventually, Himiko finding herself far too occupied with the task of adjusting to do anything but, she forgets about erasing Hell’s faces’ features from her mind.

 

.  
.  
.

 

The image of her god-fearing mother rolling in her grave when seeing the embodiment of occult-nonsense her only child had been reduced to is enough to paste a smile to her face most days. Regretfully, it isn’t enough to lift her spirits while sitting across from her highbrow of father. Their sat by the coffee shop a block away from their apartment that Saihara introduced her to, and honestly, she would’ve prefered his brooding to this.

The man is as pompous as she can remember him from her cluttered memories. It’s not all that clear whether his degrading of her character in the show is laced with some warped concern and it’s growing harder to even bring herself to care with each word he speaks. 

She doubts she’ll see him again after this, much to her relief. All she sees when looking at him is the man that had spent his every penny on disproving a god he tand her mother had once so willingly followed, all the while leaving her to her own devices. In her defense, leaving her with a substandard excuse and a flurry of flapping material (that he undoubtedly couldn’t afford) to pay the bill didn’t do all that much to dissolve the image. 

Good-fucking-bye Professor Yumeno and good riddance.

 

.  
.  
.

The search box stares at her tauntingly, practically mocking her inability to find the strength to type anything. Damn Team DanganRonpa and their willingness to supply their apartment with decent internet-connection.

Taking a deep breath, she types a name that she recalls all too well.

_102 304 results found for Yonaga Angie_

It takes a fair amount of scrolling before she finds anything that isn’t from a fan-wikia or DanganRonpa site, but when she finally does find something, it’s a blog with a handful of entries on Catholicism.

The entries are nothing special, most consisting of biblical quote and a deconstruction, but as the entries grow in number, as does the desperation in each. Reading anything that a Yonaga that was anything but bright had written felt sickening. However, it’s the last entry that leaves her with trembling fingers curled around the porcelain toilet bowl and acid staining her tongue. 

_07/23  
If we are all nothing more than ants in comparison to God, wouldn’t our deaths be the only thing that could even hold the possibility of marking the earth?_

.  
.  
.

Her first attempt at curling up with her laptop and trying to find what she can about her fellow participants(not _her_ , though, never _her_ ) isn’t her last and it becomes a silent agreement between Harukawa and Saihara that whoever stumbles across her sleeping body first would be the one to settle her into her nest of blankets in the living room. Honestly, even with her sore neck from when they lay her down in an awkward position, she’s thankful for whatever rest she can get.

Odd how now that she actually has a reasonably large dosage of pills(which are admittedly left untouched for the most part) prescribed, her body seems to grow even more restless. This time she doesn’t even have some placebo of a sleeping spell to lull her into a fitful doze.

.  
.  
.

The funerals held for the victims of the 53rd season are scattered across the country. The first four pass in a haze of crying relatives and camera flashes (and in Amami’s case crazed fans trying to crash the venue). As much as Himiko tries to deny it, she can’t say that she feels all that much during the ceremonies (not even when Gokuhara’s supposedly canine relatives fail to show up, leaving only a handful of brutes as his so-called relatives).

Between flights between cities and microwaved ramen shared in dingy hotel rooms, a pit of dread forms in Himiko’s stomach. The date that’s marked on her phone’s reminders isn’t even two days away. She’d be forced to think about _her_ far too soon for her liking.

.  
.  
.

Tenko Chabashira’s burial lacks the same flourish that many of the others had had, something which Himiko is eternally grateful for. She doesn’t think that she could handle Team DanganRonpa’s efforts tarnishing already-chipped vision she held of Tenko.

The pamphlet that read the ceremony’s schedule said that there were two people set to speak before Himiko could escape. The first had been Tenko’s mother with a disgustingly common speech for someone as amazing as Tenko.

The second speaker is a boy with a sneering face and slicked-back hair. The exact type of male that Tenko would hate.

Himiko’s fingers whiten as her hands clench into fists. The boy’s words are lost on her as she attempts to use the breathing exercises her mandatory psychologist described. Her panic-driven mind is only slightly shocked out of its stupor when Harukawa gently shakes her shoulder. Maybe Harukawa is just repaying the favour from the time that Himiko nursed her hangover before Akamatsu’s funeral, or when Himiko covered for her after she decided to completely skip Momota’s, but her crimson eyes are worried and Himiko doubts it.

“Go.” 

Harukawa’s voice is little more than a whisper, but cuts cleanly through the rest of the sombre murmurs and Himiko hears her clearly. And then she’s weaving her way through the black-clad crowd. 

Finding her way to someplace to seek refuge from the intrusive hord of mourners hadn’t been as difficult as she’d anticipated. Her current haven is the parking lot of a nearby liquor store. The lot itself is as seedy as they come and if it weren’t for her current distress, she’d probably worry about getting mugged. 

Distracted as she is, she doesn’t notice the light footsteps of someone approaching her. It isn’t until she hears someone clear their throat( please let it not be Saihara) she raises her head. Her gaze is met with a familiar spring green and shock of brown hair.

The stranger raises his hand in a half-hearted wave before speaking. “Hi.”

Himiko’s only response is to continue staring at the oddly cheerful boy. 

The boy bristles at her blank stare, then clears his throat again, this time as if he were smothering a stutter. “Right. Apologies, I saw you leave during Yamazaki’s eulogy and I just… I guess I was worried.”

Himiko does _not_ need this right now. Tenko’s relative or not she wasn’t dealing with this right now.

“Look, I don’t care if you’re Chabashira-san’s cousin or wha-”

“Sibling, actually.”

Tenko has- _had_ a brother. Of course. Add that to the list of things she didn’t know about her.

“Okay, brother then,” she ignores his slight flinch at the use of _brother_ , “I just want to be left alone right now.”

As sudden as he had appeared, his face darkens. “Yumeno-san, as hard as I’m trying, you’re making it extremely difficult to hold any kind of sympathy towards you.” Himiko is shocked right back into silence by the sudden transition in his tone. “I don’t exactly feel like talking to a person that’s standing here, alive, instead of my sister. And maybe I’m not being entirely fair to you, but this is one of my only chances at closure and I’m not throwing it away because _you_ don’t feel like it.” 

“Sorry.”

The boy’s face shifts again, his voice filled with an abundance of what Himiko can now safely assume to be faux empathy. “It’s fine.”

It’s there again. The silence that hangs thickly around them, weighing down their shoulders.

“...You’re awfully quiet for someone so intent on closure.”

“I guess me going off at you was closure.”

“Well, that’s just great.”

He leans backwards with a sigh. “You, however, didn’t get anything out of this really, did you? You can ask me whatever, I guess.”

Though completely willing to take him up on his offer, she can’t really think of where to start. She supposes she’ll start with the most recent mystery.

“That guy who was giving the eulogy, who was he?”

Through a snort he says, “Yamazaki? Ah, he used be one of Tenko’s class’ reps, alongside Tenko herself.”

When she speaks again, the bitterness that laces her words is clear enough that even Himiko can pick up on it. “He didn’t look like the type of person the Chabashira I knew would associate with.”

“Trust me, he definitely isn’t the type of person Tenko would willingly associate with. Total ass. Only reason he was even extended an invitation was because my parents thought it would be good for publicity if he were to give a heartfelt message on behalf of Tenko’s peers. You should know that Tenko would never befriend someone like him.”

Her words are tired at this point and they’re hardly anything but a muttered curse. “I doubt that I’m in any position to judge her character.”

“I guess not.”

They’re conversation has stretched far longer than either had expected, but even so it could only carry on for so long until it wears completely thin. The boy turns on his heel when he finally seems to deem the end of their conversation worthy and leaves her with a muttered _see you around_ (which they both probably know, and hope, not to be true).

It’s only after he’s a fair distance away that Himiko finally notices the journal that he’d somehow managed to slip next to her while they were having their conversation. Giving the journal a once-over, she almost feels like crying.

“Thank you, Chabashira-kun.”

.  
.  
.

Perhaps reading Tenko’s diary could be considered a betrayal of trust , but Himiko is willing to overlook the dead’s privacy just this once. So, she finds herself reading the journal beneath the covers of her bed with a small light like a teenage boy reading the most recent Playboy magazine. 

The journal itself is nothing special, a plain notebook with a spine that’s been bent a few too many times, but it’s on the inside of notebook that holds true value. The pages are filled with a scrawl that Himiko recognizes as Tenko’s own and it’s in that moment that she realizes that this was her chance at learning more about the girl she’d come to care for so much and it becomes arguably her most prized possession.

She tries to savour the words the diary holds, she really does, but who could resist the tale of Tenko Chabashira: Closeted Lesbian and Secret Fantasy Novel Enthusiast. All the same, there’s still something heart wrenching about falling in love with this Tenko through paper. 

.  
.  
.

She hated magic ever since her time spent as an apparent mage; that much had never been a secret. God knows she’s said as much in countless therapy sessions. Magic wouldn’t turn back time or cure her insomnia. It wouldn’t bring back her dead friends or insure that every single Team DanganRonpa executive spent an eternity suffering. It definitely wouldn’t bring back Tenko.

Yet, she still finds herself finds herself sorting through musty old books on dragons and wandering mages, because if a fictional world filled with magic had been enough to escape for the one person who had made her current self feel something akin to magic, it was enough for her.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, sorry if that was rushed and cheesy and generally just bad, but i hope it was still somewhat enjoyable


End file.
